St. Peter: “No you weren’t. These days we save the damnation thing pretty much for murderers, rapists, child molesters, crooked politicians, and, of course, comment spammers.”

Rob: “You’re telling me that I’m in … Heav—-”

St. Peter: “Yep. Where’d you think you were? Jersey?”

Rob: “No. I am just a little confused. The place looks just like Georgia on a beautiful spring day.”

St. Peter: “Yep. We’re pretty good at arranging such things here. I thought I’d give you a bit of an orientation. I do that for the new arrivals. Let’s start with your new house over there. What do you think?”

Rob: “Nice place. It’s a lot bigger than the Cracker Box, but that will mean that I have more to keep clean. The Cracker Box used to get pretty grimy, Pete, but I have a feeling that you already knew that.”

St. Peter: “Yep, we knew that, but you needn’t worry. This place cleans itself while you’re sleeping. It also has a huge, fully stocked library, and we already know the kinds of things you like to read. But, if you want something you don’t find there, just let us know. Oh, and it also has a recording studio, which we’re certain you’ll find to your liking.”

Rob: “So, you already know that I’m a guitar player?”

St. Peter: “Absolutely. In fact, there is another room in the house that contains a couple dozen guitars, acoustics and electrics. If you want something that’s not in there, just let us know, and we’ll take care of it.”

Rob: “Heh! How about a pre-CBS Strat, or a twelve-string Rickenbacker?”

St. Peter: “Both already there.”

Rob: “Speaking of guitars, I believe I hear guitars playing now.”

St. Peter: “Yes you do. That would Chet Atkins, Hank Williams and Johnny Cash. They’re at Chet’s place down the road, warming up. They heard you were coming, and they thought you might like to do a little pickin’.”

St. Peter: “Frankly Rob, we don’t give a shit about that. After all, they’re all just words, aren’t they? And, I assure you that Chet and the boys are waiting to have you join them, whenever it is convenient for you, of course. I told them you most surely would want to visit with your parents a bit first.”

Rob: “My parents? They’re here?”

St. Peter: “Sure. Ha! You didn’t think they’d be anywhere else did you? In fact, they’re right here in the neighborhood.”

Rob: “I’d like to see them right now, please.”

St. Peter: “No need to rush, Rob. There is plenty of time here. You’ll get used to it. Besides, I’ll just be a couple more minutes.”

St. Peter: “Certainly. Don’t worry. They know that you have to get the brief orientation first. I should let you know that there are also plenty of fine looking, well-spoken women who are anxious to ‘meet’ you, if ya know what I mean. I understand that many of them have been painting their toenails red.”

St. Peter: “Yep, that is most definitely permitted. Here we’re big on the consenting-adults-in-privacy thing.”

Rob: “Well, that sounds great, but I had this operation where they installed this bionic di—.”

St. Peter: “Look south, Rob. You’ll see that we’ve replaced that pump thing with original equipment.”

Rob: “Bejus on a bike! A new dick!!! Oh, sorry, Pete.”

St. Peter: “No problem. I can understand your excitement.”

Rob: “Damn, nice house, books, guitars, wimmen with red toenails and a new Johnson! Next thing you’ll tell me is that you allow beer, wine and booze here too.”

St. Peter: “Absolutely. People seem to forget that my Boss was and is quite the wine guy. Drinking is not a problem here. The bar in your house remains fully stocked with anything you’d like.”

Rob: “Well, Pete, I have to be honest with you. I love to drink, but I had a bit of a problem with it. It even sent me to the hospital. What’s more, when I drank I sometimes would write things or say things that I regretted. Maybe you should 86 the bar.”

St. Peter: “Not necessary. We arrange things such that people can drink whatever they like and they become friendlier with each drink. We see to it that there are no traffic accidents. There are no hangovers either.”

Rob: “How about smokes?”

St. Peter: “Same deal. Smoke all you want. It won’t make you sick, and the people who don’t smoke won’t see or smell anything.”

Rob: “Listen, Pete. I don’t mean any disrespect here, but I figure that there must be a catch. What is it?”

St. Peter:

Rob: “Ah! I knew it. So, what’s the deal?”

St. Peter: “This is no catch, Rob.”

Rob: C’mon. Don’t shit me. There absolutely must be a catch. Do I have to work 23 hours a day cleaning toilets? Shoveling shit? Babysiting cats? What is it?”

Jim…I’ve never put a trackback on my Friday Fishing posts because well…they just spoke for themselves. Kinda like ‘a picture is worth a thousand drools’.
But your words on this post are the caption to my post. Thanks for completing it!

When emotions have cooled, I’d like to engage you in a more clinical conversation about Rob. I had a brief and futile e-mail volley with him about 4 years ago concerning the train wreck I seemed to be witnessing. He blew me off with remarkable candor and little effort. I confess to feeling a bit guilty for not giving him a harder time. In any event, I’d appreciate your perspective.